Shatter
by NeoNails
Summary: Warning-very mature. Maybe she died last week. Or maybe she died just a few minutes ago. Or maybe the date doesn't matter, because regardless there's a headstone floating around in her head that won't go away.


About a month ago, I downloaded and watched all of _Harper's Island_ in about the span of a weekend, and while it was absolutely amazing, I had no intention writing anything ff-related. And then this sort of spawned out of nowhere. I'm still not sure how I feel about it, because this is probably the darkest thing I've ever written.

I actually wasn't sure if I was going to post this for a while (mostly because I don't know how it's going to go over with people), but it's been sitting on my hard drive so I figured now is as good a time as any to see what people think. If I get really bad reactions, I can always take it down, no problem.

This is AU, and pretty obviously so, but the important thing to keep in mind is the rating. This is M. Very, very much M. I don't want any of you to get offended, so… be aware.

$4$

_Say my name and his in the same breath  
>I dare you to say they taste the same<em>

- "I Don't Care," by Fall Out Boy

* * *

><p>Living in the house doesn't go as terribly as she expects.<p>

She hates that knowledge. If it was worse, it would be more like captivity and less like a disturbing version of playing house.

She expects him to try and break her—keep away food, hold water, beat her into submission—but he does none of those things. He won't let her near utensils or anything remotely weapon-like, but he cooks for her, making whatever she'd like. She never requests anything, because she refuses to encourage him anymore than necessary.

And true to his word, he's not violent toward her. For the most part. The first three weeks are the worst, mostly because she understandably can't keep her tongue in check. He murdered her father, Jimmy, every one of their friends, and let her mother's killer go on a rampage. She's furious, bitter, hurt, and wants nothing more than to rip out his heart and stomp on it.

The only words that come out of her mouth in those three weeks are vicious with the sole intent to harm. She can't physically harm him—he's already proven on too many occasions that he's stronger than her. She feels triumphant when she sees the words hit home and frustrated when he doesn't respond. A perverse voice in the back of her brain whispers she's only doing this in the hopes that maybe he'll break and finally kill her.

He never gets angry enough to accomplish that, unfortunately. He raises his voice a few times and once slammed his plate against the table when she brought up her—his—_their_—mother. He keeps his temper in check every time, but he can't quite keep it out of his eyes. That's the closest she ever comes to seeing the true lizard inside, and when she's alone she admits that it scares the hell out of her. When he stormed out of the dining room, she burst into tears.

So when it comes down to it, living with him is almost… well, peaceful isn't the right word for it, but she can't think of another synonym that fits her situation better.

It's around that third week she gives up on her viciousness. Oh, she doesn't give up completely—if he wants that to happen, he's going to need to put actual effort into breaking her down—but it's just so exhausting being angry all the time. She wants to sleep all day long, but she knows if she does he'll keep waking her up and asking what's wrong. As miserable as she is, she still doesn't know how to lie to him.

So she decides to stay silent, speaking only when asked a direct question. That change perplexed him for a long time, so he hovered for a while, always asking if she was okay, was she tired, did she want food, did she want aspirin? She hates his hovering more than anything but he won't give up until he understands what's wrong with her. It's one of those funny little parallels they share.

However, they don't talk about the _blood_ they share—to him, it's a nonissue. Something he discovered years ago yet somehow never colored his opinion of her. She doesn't understand it, but she's only been aware of their lineage for the past few months. He seems to be under the twisted opinion that she'll eventually learn to look past it, get over it.

She doesn't have the energy to tell him she'll die first before that happens.

He's her _half-brother_. She knows he didn't bring her into this godawful house for purely altruistic reasons—not like he had any to begin with—and it makes her stomach turn. He's her half-brother and a murderer and a sick son of a bitch and still manages to look at her with this wonder in his eyes that's too close to the 'L' word for comfort.

She's pretty sure she's not capable of the 'L' word anymore.

He doesn't push her, and she's strangely both grateful and resentful of it. She's grateful because she'll never see him that way, and the idea of pretending to try and do so makes her stomach turn. She's resentful because she would rather him push her too far and force horrible things on her so she could have more reason to hate him, to justify her loathing.

He lets her keep the spare room, too. She's seen his room before and she knows that the queen-sized bed isn't there by accident, and the thought always makes her shiver. Things could always be worse, she supposes. She appreciates her twin bed a smidge more just for the knowledge that it means she doesn't have to share one with him.

So they live in this weird stasis, her his not-quite prisoner, him her not-quite captor. He kisses her sometimes—she knows he justifies it in his brain as something he just can't help—and usually all it does is make her stomach churn. Luckily, he keeps the kisses PG, and never seems too affected that she won't return the kiss.

But the problem is that she knows it'll happen eventually. He expects her to _one day_ want to kiss him back of her own volition, just the same way as she expects _one day_ to get the fuck out of this honeymoon-gone-wrong hellhole.

Her silence doesn't make him happy, but he's gradually gotten used to it. No matter what, though, he always keeps a painfully close eye on her. He doesn't want her doing anything drastic, like throwing herself out the second-story window—not like she's given it a lot of serious thought and consideration. He does give her some alone time, like when she wants to read or needs to change her clothing. He bought her an entire wardrobe of clothes, but she only wears the basic stuff, t-shirts, jeans. She purposely pays as little mind to the drawer full of underwear as possible.

She wishes he would stop acting like Henry Dunn, her oldest best friend. It's not fair to her that he gets to act so nice and polite around her. As much as she hates him, she would rather see Henry Wakefield, because at least she knows that's not a lie.

The worst part, she reckons as she slides her sweatpants off her hips, is that she's pretty sure _he_ doesn't think it's a lie. He genuinely believe he's still her best friend, that he still loves her adoringly—_but what about Trish?_—and that it's perfectly justifiable to kill 20-plus people just for the opportunity of keeping her with him forever.

She's used to understanding Henry's mind better than her own, but now she doesn't understand anything. He loves her but he's a killer and proud of it. Well, maybe not necessarily proud—but certainly satisfied.

She tugs off her sleep shirt and replaces it with a black bra—most of her wardrobe is made up of black or grey these days—and runs a brush through her hair. He bought her makeup, too, but for the most part she doesn't bother with it. She never used makeup much before, and he's mentioned a few times that he prefers her without it. She's considered a few times slathering her face with it just to spite him, but determined it was too much effort.

There's a knock on her door, and she whips around, but before she can think to grab proper clothing, Henry sticks his head through.

"Hey, I was wondering if you were ready for breakf—" his voice cuts off when he fully takes her in, a strange look crossing his face. She refuses to blush in his presence, but she's standing there in only a black bra and panties and she needs to put clothes on. Now.

She turns her head away from him, towards the closet, because she's never going to acknowledge that fucking bizarre adoration in his eyes, but before she can so much as blink he's right in front of her and she can't go anywhere.

"You're beautiful," he breathes, and she has to shut her eyes because it doesn't matter how many times he says it, he's still _Henry Dunn_, and he still _murdered her father._ God, why can't he be like normal serial killers and just torture her to death?

He takes her reluctance as a different kind of weakness, and his fingers come up and gently brush her hair out of her face and neck. She tenses, but somehow manages not to directly flinch at his touch. "You are beautiful," he repeats, and the words sound like a caress and a strangle all at the same time and she feels sick.

She keeps her eyes shut but she still feels him lean closer, and then his lips are on her neck, and it's all she has not to instantly recoil. "Beautiful," he repeats low in her ear, and his hand slides up and cups the other side of her neck.

"Henry," she begins weakly. She wants to push him away. She wants to shove him out the door and down the steps until his neck breaks. She manages to reach her hands up and press against his chest, but he keeps kissing her, working the skin with his lips and teeth.

"Abby?" he asks, but before she can get the word out—_No nonononononono_—he does something to the spot right under her ear and she whimpers. It's an involuntary reaction, purely her body's instinctual reaction to stimuli, but she still flushes with shame. She doesn't mean it, she doesn't want it, but that doesn't mean her body and her mind are always in sync.

This isn't the first time it's happened, unfortunately. He kissed her once on the second week when she was still half-asleep and without thinking she kissed him back until he deepened it and she remembered what she was doing, and with whom.

She manages to push him a little, but he's taken the incentive and repeats the movement, nipping the thin skin until she feels like her knees are going to give out. _No_ he is _not_ turning her on. It doesn't matter what his mouth can do, _he murdered his fiancé. _

She's not stopping him enough, because he starts backing her up towards her bed. She needs to throw him the hell out.

He's better at this than she expects—she doesn't know why, it's not like she didn't know he had plenty of practice over the years—because he's got her on the bed with him hovering over her in the span of only a few breaths.

"Henry," she repeats again. _Get the hell out_, she wants to say, but her lips won't move to make the words. There's not a whole lot of room for the two of them on her twin, but he doesn't seem to notice, much less care. He keeps his mouth on the same spot, but his hands wander, tracing her body with purposeful care. Considering, he's moving slowly, not really pushing her any farther, just choosing to lie there over her with his lips on her neck and his hands on her waist.

She squeezes her eyes shut. Maybe if she concentrates real hard, she can pretend this is Jimmy. He's still alive, still in love with her, and still willing to spend every second of his life with her. But she can't seem to make her imagination work properly—Henry's thinner, has more muscle but in a way that always made him leaner than Jimmy—and even without the different body types, her mind won't let her forget _this is Henry. This is the man that you're letting do these things, feel these things, to your body._

His hand—rough and calloused and painted in invisible blood—slides up and cups her breast through her bra, and she lets out a little gasp at his boldness. He's _touching_ her, and she's letting him. What the hell is going on here?

Her blunt fingernails dig through his sweater, into his skin, and she swears she can feel him smile against her skin. He would do something that fucked up. But his head is moving down, towards his hand, and she dimly realizes that her breath is coming out a lot shallower than before.

_I hate you I hate you I hate you_—it's the phrase that repeats over and over in her head, but she can't make her body move the way it should. Did he drug her? She didn't remember when he would've had the opportunity to do so, but she doesn't doubt it because it can't be her treacherous body that's truly decided to turn against her all on its own.

He licks the dip of her collarbone and she gasps again, and one of his hands has slid under her back, and she knows he's working the clasp of her bra but she doesn't know how to stop him anymore. It's like she's having an out of body experience and she can't do anything but lay there, useless.

She's still aware of what's going on, and she feels nothing but deep, contemptible disgust for herself. He's got her bra off, and his thumb is working her nipple when his lips cover the right one. _Jesus_, he's good with his mouth and _God_, she hopes he doesn't notice that her panties are getting wet. _He_ should not have this effect on her at all…

Abruptly, he lifts his head from her body and _it's not fucking right how disappointed she is about it_ and he gives her this look that's too proud and satisfied and makes her want to vomit. "Did you like that?" he asks roughly.

She won't—_can't_—answer him, but he doesn't wait for a response anyway, because he prompts, "You dug your nails into my shoulders again." The smile he gives her is full of sin and promise and absolutely should not make her wetter.

She notices that her fingers really are clenching into his shoulders—good, he deserves the pain—and he returns his head to her breasts, switching sides until she has to grit her teeth against the pleasure. His knee slides between hers, parting her legs with no resistance and she feels him, hard and ready for her, against her thigh. It makes bile want to rise up in her throat.

She desperately hopes he'll just get it over with already. Fine, she can't control her body and she'll be ashamed of herself forever, but he if he just does it and gets it out of his system maybe he'll get bored and decide to murder her like everyone else.

While his mouth is busy following the length of her body, his free hand goes for the waistband of her underwear, and all she can think is _finally_. He's accomplished enough with the foreplay that the bastard's ego should be sufficiently boosted. He'll fuck her, and then he can kill her knowing he finally got what he wanted.

He slips her panties off her, kissing up and down her legs as he goes. She shuts her eyes again, not wanting to watch as he inevitably goes for his belt buckle. But that doesn't happen.

Instead, his mouth covers her and she's so surprised her back arches off the bed. But that doesn't deter him in the slightest as his hand pins her hips to the bed and his arm works her other leg over his shoulder.

"H-Henry?" she asks, partly fearful. What the hell is he doing to her? Well, she _knows_ what he's doing to her, she just can't for the fucking life of her figure out _why_. But he doesn't respond, because he's licking and nipping her with such single-minded intent it's making her eyes roll back in her head.

She feels nauseous, she truly does, but the nausea's not doing anything to tamp down the heat coiling in her body or the twitching in her muscles. But she won't give in. She refuses to give in and let him get her off.

At some point he became too far away for her to reach, which is good because she can ball her fingers around the comforter without him knowing how well he's affecting her. But he slides two fingers into her—and goddamn, they slide in way too easily—and she has to bite down on her lip so hard she tastes blood to stop from making any noise.

"_Please_," she begs, finally finding her voice. Her chest is tight and she's sucking in breathy lungful's of air but it feels like it's not enough. A fine sweat has broken out across her skin and all she can think is _I hate him I hate him I hate him—_

"Please what?" he asks against her, and the vibrations of his voice shoot straight up her body and seem to zing all around her nerves as she throws her head back. With his fingers doing half the work, he seems content to let his mouth pay special attention to her clit.

"_Stop_," she gasps out, and she's so stunned she finally got the word out that she actually manages to forget about what he's doing to her for a second.

He pauses, but he doesn't take his fingers out of her. He does, however, pull his head back, so she can see the blackness of his eyes between her legs and the slight shininess around his lips that she's ashamed to admit came from her. "Do you want me to stop?" he asks slowly, and _fuck_ he's still close enough that she can feel his every breath against her overheated and oversensitive skin.

_Noyesnoyesnoyesno_—his fingers move experimentally inside her, like he's preparing to take them out, and before she can stop herself she's whimpering and he's grinning so triumphantly it looks like his face might split in two.

But he returns his head back to her body, and she slumps back against the sheets, feeling something very close to defeated. She doesn't want to admit she's giving up, and she most certainly doesn't want to admit she's giving up because of _this_. She's not ready to give up yet, is she?

She can't think very clearly with his tongue moving like that against her, but this errant little thought somehow crosses her mind and it occurs to her then that this would be the perfect time to attack him if she had anything suitably weapon-like. There can't possibly be a more defenseless position than him going down on her. The thought distracts her so well that she's completely caught off guard when he sucks her clit into his mouth and she reacts without thinking, moaning loudly and with longing.

She doesn't understand how he knows her body better than she does, but he knows she's close, so every time he pushes into her he curls his fingers until her hips are moving involuntarily in time to his movements.

He pulls his head away from her suddenly, but before she can process the change, his thumb is taking the place of his mouth, working that little bundle of nerves up and down, side to side. He slides up her body until his face is hovering over hers, one elbow propping him up.

She feels a different kind of wetness welling up in her eyes, and she doesn't know if the tears are from the intense pleasure or the knowledge that _Henry's_ the one giving her that pleasure. Thank God, he doesn't notice it, because he continues to grin down at her as he pumps his fingers.

"I want to see you when you come," he explains simply, and then his thumb presses down the same time he curls his fingers and her last thought is _Oh God, he would_—and then there are stars exploding around her eyes, and her body is shuddering and spiraling out of control and it feels so _good_ it's not right, and she's pretty sure she might have moaned his name—

She's not sure how much time has passed when she finally gets her bearings back, but every muscle in her body feels loose and relaxed and he's still hovering over her. Her wetness is gone from his mouth, though.

"How do you feel?" he whispers, brushing back her bangs that have stuck damply to her forehead. "I wanted to make sure it was good for you."

He's a fucking psychopath, but her body has no problem informing her that _good_ didn't even cover it. She nods weakly, because anything otherwise would be a lie, and even if she _could_ lie, there was no way could pretend she faked a world-class orgasm like that one.

"Good," he replies, grinning proudly and pressing a light kiss to her lips. It's then that she feels him, still hard against her thigh. "Now why don't you get changed so I can make us breakfast?"

_What?_ He kisses her again, light and brief like before, and then stands up. For the first time she notices that he's stripped her completely bare while he's still fully clothed.

He's out of the room, and then she's finally left with her thoughts. She's shocked, because she's still not sure how her day turned from getting changed to Henry's head between her legs or how she ended up enjoying it so much.

And _holy fuck_, she really did enjoy it. How did she let that happen? It sinks in, what she did—or more precisely, _didn't_—and the more seconds that tick by, the more sick she becomes. This moment in history cannot be undone, and she feels the weight of every person Henry killed judging her, looking down on her for letting her life come to _this_. Shame racks every inch of her body.

She turns on her side, bringing her knees up to her chest, still naked. In this one incident, she thinks Henry just might have won, because right now the only thing she hates more than him is herself.

$4$

I finished this in a day. And I have no idea what the hell to make of it, much less how I feel about it. It's heavy (or fucked up, whatever word you want to use) and significantly more graphic than I usually write, but I suppose that's warranted given the content. This was an… interesting experiment.

Well… I hope you guys liked it anyway (maybe/hopefully).


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